


How Machines Live

by MadeInSpace



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Dieselpunk, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Recluse Clarke, Soldier Lexa, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-09-25 02:35:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9798782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadeInSpace/pseuds/MadeInSpace
Summary: During the civil war between Polisians and Arkadians, Major Lexa Woods escapes her regiment after a mutiny. On the brink of death, she's saved by the recluse Clarke Griffin.





	1. Chapter 1

The bullet had hit the back of Lexa's leg and torn through her calf. She nearly drowned in the river right then, teeth clattering from the cold water and the searing pain. It was horribly dizzying to not know whether she was freezing or burning. Her heart pumped fast, a loud thump that she felt right in her throat. She was lucky Private Jordan was such a shit shot, especially during a cloudburst.

Lexa reached the shore and dragged herself behind the fallen trunk of a tree. She coughed out the freshwater sloshing in her lungs as aimless bullets whistled past her. Once the shots stopped she crawled deeper into the forest and sat against a spruce with her teeth clenched tight. If she usually hated heavy rainfall, she was glad for it now. Pte Jordan and Corporal Wick wouldn't risk the swim across banks when the current was so ruthless. They hadn't been trained for these conditions as she had.

Still, Lexa knew she'd been a fool to think she could outrun two bloodthirsty soldiers for very long. She'd lived with them long enough to know they were sharp. There was no excuse for her lack of judgment and to have let the fear of death turn her into a damn novice was unforgivable.

She took off her waterlogged coat and pulled up her shirtsleeve to examine her wrist. Her thumb brushed over a small bump and she felt the pulse of her tracker. It was a micro device, familiar, embedded beneath her skin and between two veins since she entered the army. She'd felt pride swell in her chest when they'd equipped her then but now it was working against her. She had to take it out before the soldiers who intended to see her dead used it to their advantage.

Disabling it with her pistol was out of the question—her gunpowder was soaked and the excruciating pain from shattered bone and broken nerves would slow her down. The remaining options were her blade or her teeth. The latter made her stomach turn. Lexa pulled the dagger strapped to her thigh and carved out a piece of bark to bite on. She let out quick breaths before sliding the blade into her flesh. Tears prickled her eyes as she sliced the tracker out, hand trembling with exhaustion. She dug her left heel into the ground and pushed her back against the tree, letting out a cry when the bloody device fell to the ground. She smashed it with the handle of her knife and listened until the faint mechanical whirl stopped. It was useless now, another piece of tech that nature would destroy in due course. When all this was over, Lexa would get another one.

She cut out the sleeves of her shirt and wrapped one around the oozing wound. The blood would stop eventually but her leg was another matter. She rolled up her pants above her knee and took the other sleeve to make a tourniquet that she tightened with a stick. It was crude work but it would have to do.

Lexa put her coat back on and peeked behind the trunk for any sign of movement. Jordan and Wick would take at least two hours to get to the bridge that joined the banks. With any luck an Arkadian bomb had already destroyed it. It was the first time that Lexa prayed for her enemy's success.

Pain shot up her leg when she rose and she nearly toppled over. She stood against the tree and searched the ground for a staff she could lean on. When she found none, she clamped her mouth shut and limped her way deeper into the forest.

For a while the thought of home was a helpful distraction. Lexa hadn't seen Polis in the four years since the war had been declared and it warmed her chest whenever she pictured herself walking its streets again. She would have to speak to Ground General Pram immediately but it was certain the news of the massacre would reach Polis with or without her. What they wouldn't know was the full extent of the operation. Lexa had no doubt that other regiments were affected. There had been… rumors that Arkadians had infiltrated their ranks over the years, but these kind of unfounded whispers were common on camp. Fear and paranoia were close friends. Besides, Polis used spies just as often as their enemy did. It was their high number and the cold-blooded slaughter of her Colonel and company—a hundred men and women total—that tormented Lexa. Just a few hours before, they had all eaten their rations together. She wouldn't rest easy until the soldiers responsible faced justice.

Another hour passed before Lexa found a stick sturdy enough to support her weight. The rain stopped eventually and allowed the sunlight to filter through the trees and dry her clothes. Though her feet still squelched in her boots, her jacket became warm and her pants stopped sticking to her thighs. There were still many miles to go but small blessings were appreciated.

It was nice to feel the sun until the hour changed again and the once pleasant warmth became uncomfortable heat. As the earth slanted up, the vegetation grew wilder and the dull throb in Lexa's head escalated into loud hammering. She felt her throat dry and her stomach growl. Chicory had been her only source of food since her narrow escape two days ago and the rainwater seemed like a distant memory now. It didn't help that the pain in her right leg had crawled up her thigh and settled in her lower back. Soon it would climb higher, she was sure, and then it would be impossible to even limp.

Lexa stopped and sat against a rock to take off the tourniquet. She had little knowledge of medicine and knew only the things that could save a soldier a few precious hours before they reached medical, but even she knew that cutting off circulation for much longer would ruin her leg for good. She prayed it didn't come to that. The prostheses in Polis were state-of-the-art but growing used to a new limb and new nerves took months, not to mention the adjustments to be made throughout the years. She couldn't fight a war that way.

Lexa bit the insides of her cheeks as she untied the scrap of fabric and retied it over the wound. With any luck, infection wouldn't set. With any luck, she hadn't miscalculated and the first fortress surrounding Polis was just another day's walk away. They'd recognize her uniform and from there she'd be transported to the Medical Center and then GGen Pram. One day was all it took. Lexa had always valued optimism (though it couldn't be said it valued her in return).

She was careful to place all her weight on her left side despite the bones and joints there aching from the added stress. To stop now was unthinkable. Jordan and Wick were poor trackers but they knew where she was headed. She was doomed if they decided to plow through the forest with the steam-tank and heavy weaponry.

Lexa swiped her hand at buzzing mosquitoes as she looked at the sky. The trees hid most of it from view now but she was sure she was heading west. Even after the sun went down, she would stick to a straight path and it'd be impossible to miss the Polis fortification.

 _Unless you made a mistake._ She circled around a tree and stopped in her tracks when she noticed the bark speckled with grey and blue spots. Branches hung from the tree like mangled limbs, not quite dead yet but one kick at the base and they would fall atop the browning moss that covered the ground. To think of it, the forest had started to look just as ill as Lexa felt.

Heavy doubt clawed at her insides. It was possible that in her haste Lexa had gone southwest rather than northwest. This meant that if she kept going she would miss the walls that protected her city by a few miles. She looked at her trembling hand and the trail of blood that had leaked past the bandage and down to the center of her palm. With an empty stomach and the blood loss, perhaps she was more feverish than she cared to admit—a dazed fool chasing the setting sun. She looked up at the sky again and closed her hand tight.

"To hell with it," she muttered.

Even with dread coursing through her veins, going forward was the only way. The heels of her boots sunk into the ground as she trudged on. The further she went the more it seemed like the forest had lost its will to make it through the fall. Birds were a rare sight and Lexa had only spotted one other animal: a deer mouse so scraggly that she could count out its vertebrae. It followed her for a while and Lexa came close to killing it with one blow of her stick.

She thought of it. Her stomach certainly didn't protest; she'd eaten far worse these past four years. But one glance at its protruding bones and she knew it wouldn't make a difference. The small thing was likely just as sick as she was. She resigned herself to its presence instead and found it to be a welcome distraction. 

It was getting dark by the time she heard the crunch of pine needles beneath her boots. Lexa wasn't entirely delusional; she knew what it meant. There were no pine trees around Polis. She'd marched into uncharted territory and now she was lost without a compass or the sun. Even the mouse seemed hesitant to go any further.

"Another mile and we rest for the night. What do you say, Zoran?" she croaked, throat parched. The mouse sniffed around a death cap and scurried behind the tree and out of sight. Lexa licked her dry lips and shook her head to clear the debilitating haze in her mind.

"It doesn't matter what you say," she told the mouse. "I'm the human here."

She dragged herself through the silent forest with shaking limbs and the Soldier's Prayer lodged in her throat. She would keep it for the last moment. The fight wasn't over until her body stopped carrying her. She would crawl to the walls of Polis if need be. If Jordan or Wick caught up with her before, so be it. She had a dagger and the will to fight until her last breath.

"Come at me, Private," she grunted.

Lexa had planned to make the mile and more. In the obscurity of the forest the last thing she'd expected was a tree-covered ridge.

She fell face-forward and tumbled down with a sharp howl of pain, her hands coming up to protect her head from rocks and hardened mud. Her body rolled to the bottom of the hill and she landed with a hard thud, back pressed into wild grass. The searing pain shooting through her body left her with her mouth agape; stunned into place. She screwed her eyes shut and brought her fist to her mouth to muffle a loud cry.

If she was in pain before, it was anguish now. Even breathing brutalized her ribs and Lexa was certain she'd broken at least one. It felt as if death was waiting beside her, cruelly impatient. Lexa dug her fingers into the ground and stared up at the dark sky. Avoiding the prayer any longer felt futile.

"My fight—is—" she choked on the words and fought back tears. 

There was no dignity in dying this way. She'd been on the run. It wasn't the way she'd envisioned this going. The words felt like poison in her mouth, a betrayal of her pledge. She _hadn't_ fought. She swallowed back the last of the sentence.

Lexa focused on small breaths so as to keep the pain in her chest at bay. It helped until she heard the distant sound of footsteps on shriveled leaves. Her blood ran cold. She quickly felt for her blade but the sheath was empty. She cursed.  _It must've fallen out, of course it did_. She turned her head to the side and felt her efforts to regulate her breathing go to waste. The sight of a figure coming her way with a torch had her wishing she'd died in the fall.

This woman was Arkadian.

Lexa didn't know how she could tell with just a glance. Some said it was in their eyes, their posture, their voice. She didn't care to know how, all she could think was _why?_ Why an Arkadian here, of all places? Had Lexa lost her damn mind and walked east instead? Were her enemies settling close to Polis in a plan to strike the city soon?

As the woman came closer, Lexa took in her rust-colored goggles and a dark blue coat with poorly sewed rips. Her heavy black boots had mismatched laces and Lexa recognized the poor craftsmanship of the pistol holstered at her hip. More alarming was her firm grip on a grapple gun. If she took pleasure in eviscerating her enemy, Lexa would be slow-gutted like a fish.

Lexa attempted to get up but the pain had her pinned to the ground. The woman crouched down as her eyes swept over Lexa's frame. 

"You're in luck, soldier. I was just about to shoot my brains out from boredom."

Lexa's fingers tightened around a clump of dirt as she watched the woman take out a balled up rag and a small vial from her pocket. She held the cap between her teeth as she poured the liquid into the rag and folded it in half. Lexa knew that pungent smell. The woman spat the cap on the ground.

"Should just take a sec—"

As swiftly as she could manage, Lexa threw the dirt at the woman's eyes and rolled on her side in an attempt to get up. A burst of pain shot through her ribs and she crumpled back to the ground with a guttural groan. The woman was next to her in an instant, steady hands keeping her shoulders in place. 

"If you could avoid breaking more bones..." the woman chided.

Lexa glared at her ferociously. She wouldn't give an Arkadian the satisfaction of a plea. The woman  _laughed_ and wiped off the particles of dirt on her face.

"Is that how you make a girl feel good back in Polis?"

Heavy footsteps clinked and clanked their way toward them, louder and louder until they stopped. Unperturbed, the woman picked up her soaked rag and glanced over her shoulder.

"You're as discreet as a fox in the henhouse, Jag."

Lexa's heart pounded in her chest at the sight of a colossal steel figure peering down at her from behind the Arkadian. A footstep would be all it took for it to crush her ribcage. Lexa had the Soldier's Prayer at the tip of her tongue when she felt the woman press the wet cloth against her nose and mouth.

"Relax, Major."

Panicked, Lexa reached out and dug her nails into the woman's side, fighting the best she could until her muscles loosened and her eyes closed on their own.


	2. Chapter 2

Of all the things Lexa feared she would wake up to, a mechanical chirp was the most perplexing. Lying on a soft mattress, she cracked an eye open and found herself staring at a steel bird with two clocks in both eyes, one that read noon and the other midnight. From the dapple of yellow cast on the floor, Lexa guessed it was dawn.

In this silent morning, Lexa thought of the attic she used to occupy back in Polis, entire nights spent gazing up at the small skylight as she waited to turn sixteen. She wondered if the building was still rickety or if the landlord had finally agreed to invest in the security of his tenants. It was a life left behind when Lexa joined the army with a proud jut of her chin.

With the haze of deep slumber dissipating, Lexa sat up and quickly scanned the room: a standing desk cluttered with grainy sheets of paper, thick duvets stacked in a corner, and a chair backed against the wall. Though the window was an enticing escape, it was likely someone was posted at the bottom of it.

Lexa threw the quilt off her body and set her bare feet on the hardwood flooring. She craned forward to look through the window and frowned when she saw a greenhouse in the middle of the backyard. The sight was… unusual, almost domestic. Lexa knew her city and its surroundings: civilians had not crossed the walls since the war, let alone settled outside of them. To live in the forest meant living on battleground. What was an Arkadian's business here? 

The threat of an ambush seemed the only logical explanation. They had found the home and remained inside to plan their attack. But how had they gotten past the defense lines? Had the woman who had knocked Lexa unconscious helped them come through one by one? A lone civilian could hide more easily than a heavily armed group and if the Arkadians were now headed toward Polis, it coincided with the slaughter of Lexa's company.

As her erratic mind connected all possible dots, Lexa realized this could amount to a grand scale attack against the city she had sworn to protect. She had to get to Polis as quickly as possible. First she would have to deal with the woman. If Lexa managed to take her by surprise, she would have the advantage of hand-to-hand training. Many civilians could carry a weapon but using it in the face of immediate danger was another thing. The thought of it being easy didn't settle well with Lexa—civilian deaths had started the war and both sides were guilty. But there was no time for shame with such higher stakes at play. If it took one Arkadian civilian to save thousands of Polisians, Lexa would shoulder the guilt.

The creak of footsteps coming up a stairway had Lexa's training kick into gear. She limped toward the door and stood behind it with her eyes on the knob. When it finally turned, she was ready. The Arkadian woman had little time to react before Lexa lunged at her and wrestled her to the floor. She heard the crash of a glass of water and the woman letting out an _oomph_ when her back hit the hardwood. Lexa pinned her wrist down and pressed her arm against the woman's throat.

"Don't move," Lexa said lowly.

The woman drew in a sharp breath, more out of surprise than fear. "I realize you haven't been close to a civilian in a while but this isn't _ngh_ —"

"Where are we?" Lexa demanded between clenched teeth.

"The bedroom, up the st—"

Lexa pushed her forearm against her windpipe. "I know you're not an idiot."

"N-neutral ground, not too far off the mountain chains."

Lexa felt her heart plummet. "That's, that isn't possible. I only walked two days—three days—" her mind buzzed with uncertainty. Had it been more? She looked into the calm eyes of the woman beneath her. 

"Who are you?"

"Clarke."

"A _full_ name."

"That's all you get."

Lexa groaned in frustration. "You're not in a position to argue."

Clarke managed a labored laugh. "You'd be amazed to know I argue quite well on my back."

"You've assaulted a Polisian army officer during a time of war. That is punishable by death."

"Fascinating. I wouldn't go by the book if I were you," Clarke said between two strangled gasps.

"Give me one good reason."

Clarke tilted her head back to jerk it toward the door. "See that big fellow standing in the corridor there? His name is Jag. He's dormant now but he's programmed to go a little berserk if my heart ever stops. An aircraft couldn't take him out and he runs a tireless 60 mile-per-hour. Something tells me you won't go very far with your bum leg. Need another reason, Major?"

Lexa took in the colossus observing her and felt the muscles in her arm loosen. She swallowed hard.

"I know you're Arkadian. Why did you take me here?"

The statement seemed to unsettle Clarke but her composure remained remarkable. "You were bleeding out in my front yard—in _my_ book that's a call for help. Now if you could avoid ruining your stitches and cracking more ribs, I'd be a happy gal."

"My—" Lexa glanced at her wrist and pulled at the sleeve, revealing four stitches. It was clean work, much better than Lexa had seen in a long time. War wounds were so common that medics tended to favor speed over finesse.

With the reminder she had felt the worst pain of her life just a day earlier—or was it more?—Lexa realized suddenly that she couldn't feel _anything_ at all except for a dull throb at her temples. Even the fever seemed to have broken. Confused, she stumbled back and felt for the bed behind her.

"How long have I been out?"

Clarke sat up, observing her quietly. "I didn't mean to freak you out. You're a little high on painkillers, that's all."

Lexa looked down at her bandaged leg and groaned at her stupidity. She'd been so focused on escaping that she hadn't taken into account the reason she was in such a state in the first place.

"How long?"

Clarke hesitated before she brought her knees to her chest. "Two nights."

Lexa paled. Her time was too precious for a halt this long. She had to get to Polis, to speak to GGen Pram, to get a new tracker, and to find and execute the soldiers responsible for the slaughter of her company. There was too much to be done. 

"Don't get any ideas," Clarke said. "You're in no state to walk out of here."

Lexa took her head in her hands, wishing her body would cooperate, wishing she wasn't locked in a room with the enemy. It couldn't be coincidence that Lexa stumbled upon an Arkadian while running away from two others.

"This was a set up," she accused, trying to make sense of the situation. "I was led straight to you. If it's leverage you want, I—I'm no Colonel. My life holds no weight, there's nothing I could—"

"Would you please shut up?" Clarke asked with staggering placidity.

Lexa swallowed back the rest of her incoherent babble. Clarke was Arkadian, she hadn't denied it, but she didn't… she just _sat_ there, her remarkable blue eyes peering up with nothing but concern.

"I don't understand," Lexa finally croaked. "Why not kill me?"

"Trust me, Major, I was considering it when your screaming woke me up in the middle of the night."

Lexa's eyebrows knitted together. That couldn't be right. "I don't remember."

Clarke brushed a hand over the column of her throat. "It's like I said: you've got some powerful stuff in your veins."

Lexa shook her head. She'd wasted enough time. She stood up and looked around the room for her uniform. "I have to get back to Polis."

Clarke stood up as well, hands up to convey her amicable stance. "Okay, look: the painkiller's giving you a messy perspective. Once it's out of your system, I can guarantee you'll be on your back begging me to slide a knife in your neck."

"Then give me enough to last," Lexa growled.

"I have two syringes left—that's a one day relief, two if you want to be a fucking hero. There's no way you'll manage a week."

"You don't know me," Lexa spat, feeling the irrational need to prove herself.

"No. But I know the bones you've broken and the _shit job_ you did at treating a bullet wound."

"I can manage. Polis needs me."

Clarke scoffed. "I thought your life held no weight?"

Lexa felt white-hot anger surge through her. "Where have you put my uniform?"

"You mean that breeding ground for germs? Jag set it on fire. He's a little impulsive like that."

Lexa pinched her forehead in an effort to contain the swirl of unpleasant thoughts directed at the exasperating civilian in front of her. She took a deep breath but winced when her ribs screamed in protest. So maybe the pain could be felt… a little.

"Hurts, huh?" Clarke pointed out. "That's the adrenaline of jumping me wearing off. Now imagine how it would feel without the good stuff flowing in your body right now."

Lexa's eyes narrowed. "How did you acquire it?"

Clarke blinked before she let out a scoff. "So now I'm a thief."

"It's a simple question."

"I've lived here for years, Major. Had plenty of time to make it myself."

It was the first time Lexa heard the Arkadian sound angry. Lexa felt sudden embarrassment for the way she had spoken to her. Arkadian or not, she had cleaned, stitched, and bandaged her wounds. She had offered a soldier that fought for the opposite army her entire supply of drugs. It was a strange thing to swallow her pride when just a few seconds ago she believed she was right, but perhaps it was time to negotiate rather than order.

"I'm sorry," Lexa conceded. "I'm… grateful for your help, but I have to leave at once. You may not be a part of this war but your people are, and they won't stop for me to rest."

"They're not my people," Clarke stated, tone suddenly sullen.

Lexa paused, taken aback.

"I may be Arkadian by birth but…" Clarke scratched the back of her head and crouched down to collect the pieces of glass on the floor. "I left a long time ago. You want to know why I didn't kill you? I live on neutral ground for a reason. It might look half-dead and inhabitable to you, but it's quiet. Nobody bothers with the deep forest, not even the bombers. Well—"

Clarke glanced up at Lexa with a mocking smile. "—I suppose the sick and foolish do stumble here sometimes."

Lexa sat on the bed with a rigid back. "I won't hide in the Deadwood while Arkadian soldiers continue to slaughter my army from the inside. Our General will need names."

Clarke placed a shard atop the pile and bit her lip, seemingly hesitant to speak her mind. "If it's been days surely one of your aircrafts would've seen… would've gotten word back by now."

Lexa's hand gripped the sheet. "Even so, what kind of leader doesn't do everything in their power to avenge their people?"

Clarke picked up the last shard. "You Polisians have always been known to be thorough. I would think your Ground General's revenge would be meticulous, that it would take time." She stood up and looked toward the corridor. "Jag. Collect the glass and soften it, please. We'll use it in the greenhouse."

The steel contraption entered the room and bent down to pick up each shard. Lexa observed him with wary eyes. But more unpredictable was Clarke, Clarke who guessed the inner-workings of Polisian tactics with ease, who assumed things about GGen Pram that Lexa knew to be true, who spoke about vengeance and gardening in the same breath. Clarke who didn't flinch when Lexa spoke against Arkadia's actions. Clarke who had deserted her people—it was plain as day. Lexa wouldn't speak of it. It wasn't her place. Still, it was hard not to wonder.

As Jag's loud clanks resonated down the staircase, Clarke picked up the quilt Lexa had discarded and placed it atop the pile in the corner. With her back turned, she'd made herself an easy target. Lexa's brain had been conditioned for this; in just a few seconds she found herself thinking of ten different ways she could silence Clarke without alerting her clunky partner. She shook herself out of her trance when she heard Jag walk outside, his steps muted by the grass. She had no need to hurt Clarke anymore. 

"There are clothes in the closet at the end of the corridor," Clarke said by the doorway. "If you're going to leave, I suggest you do it quick. The day's just begun."

Lexa watched as she left the room, the door remaining open. She stood near the window and waited until she saw Clarke walk toward the open greenhouse. If it was a trap—

Lexa sighed. It was exhausting to think of every possible angle, especially since she had become aware her brain was starting to respond to pain again. Mostly it was a burning sting that came and went from her leg to her ribs, but the feeling was still considerably muted. As she looked at the bed, sleep became more tempting than the fresh air outside. But being selfish went against army code. She breathed for others.

Lexa walked out of the room and ventured down the corridor with a few looks over her shoulder. She selected a navy long-sleeve and black pants, the closest she could find that matched her uniform. She hoped Clarke hadn't actually destroyed her coat and insignia and that her dagger was still outside somewhere. At least her boots were lined against the wall. Lexa went to grab them but yelped in pain—her ribs hadn't appreciated the sudden move and Lexa now regretted that she had attacked Clarke so carelessly.

If only she still had her staff…

Lexa turned around and resigned herself to asking Clarke for further help. If she had once been told that an Arkadian would lace up her boots one day, the offender would be at the bottom of a river. Once inside the bedroom, Lexa carefully stripped down to nothing.

Examining her nude body was… unpleasant. There were more bruises than she'd expected, purples and browns speckled all over and most violent around her ribs. Lexa was more concerned about her leg, which though cleaned and stitched, had started to sting again after one too many steps. It was unnerving that Clarke seemed to be proven right so quickly. Lexa was determined to at least get dressed without cringing.

The cotton was soft and light on her skin, a contrast to her uniform. Lexa moved slowly, feeling like she'd aged fifty years in two nights. She walked out of the room and swallowed hard when the staircase came into view. Clinging to the balustrade, she set one foot down and bit into her lip. She was focused on shallow breaths and had stopped halfway down when Clarke appeared at the bottom and leaned against the wall with her arms crossed beneath her chest.

"Would you care for some help?" She asked.

Lexa shook her head. "I'm fine."

Clarke shrugged and disappeared once more, leaving Lexa feeling like a stubborn mule. If she couldn't go down a flight of stairs without drawing blood from her lips—

" _I'm fine_ ," she repeated under her breath.

When she finally got to the bottom, her body was screaming and Lexa had resigned herself to the truth: _fine_ was an utter lie. A week limping through the forest would kill her before she ever saw the Polis walls. Lexa hated her weakness for it, but a few more days here could be beneficial. Clarke hadn't been wrong: it would take some time for Polis to strategize a counterattack and send word to their scattered regiments. Perhaps in that time Lexa could heal. It was a pleasant thought at the moment, to be faster and stronger and able to focus without her head throbbing. Not even Jordan and Wick inside a tank would be able to stop her.

Lexa followed the smell of oatmeal and honey and found herself watching Clarke stir oats in a bubbling pot. To stay so willingly in the company of an Arkadian seemed unthinkable, but if Clarke belonged to no army, no city—if her identity was only _Clarke_ , a woman content living in the depths of uncharted territory... perhaps an exception could be made. 

Lexa cleared her throat. 

"Maybe—maybe it would be wiser for me to wait 'till the pain isn't so sharp."

Clarke looked over her shoulder and stared a few seconds before she pulled a bowl and set it next to hers. She turned back to the stove and Lexa noticed the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "Suit yourself, Major."


	3. Chapter 3

The last time Lexa had a proper meal, it'd been around campfire with twenty other soldiers and the sound of a harmonica accompanying the crackling wood. The grub hadn't been much more than salted beef and a chunk of bread but it'd been enough to satisfy growling stomachs. She'd saved the bread to wipe her plate clean and had quaffed her watery coffee to stay warm after the fire died. The company had been uneasy, constantly waiting for news of deployment or movement from the Arkadian lines, but Lexa had known from her Colonel they would remain there a while. Establishing small traditions during mealtime had been the best way to keep morale up.

When Clarke peeled an apple and slid a bowl of dewberries on the small table, Lexa found herself salivating. It'd been a while since she saw fruit that wasn't spoiled or ravaged by flies when the crates arrived to camp.

"I thought the forest was half-dead," Lexa recalled Clarke saying.

Clarke sat in front of her and rested her chin on her hand. "Can you appreciate something without examining its every angle?"

Lexa blinked. "No."

"Pity." Clarke shoved a spoonful of oats in her own mouth before pointing to Lexa's bowl. "This is the first solid food you've had in days. Try not to let it choke you on the way down."

Lexa grabbed her spoon with a frown, unsure if she'd made the right choice in staying. Agony in the forest might've been preferable to being treated like a child. The thought vanished soon as she chewed on the oats and a couple of berries. Even if swallowing was painful, the burst of forgotten flavors was worth the trouble. Lexa scraped the bowl for every last grain. When she looked up, Clarke was staring.

"What's your name?" Clarke asked.

The question took Lexa by surprise. It hadn't occurred to her until now that Clarke had only called her by her rank or simply a damn fool. Her first instinct was to deflect, to bargain _(my name for your full one)_ , or to lie, but she saw no reason for withholding it after Clarke had seen her at her most vulnerable.

"Lexa."

Clarke sat back and seemed to ponder the name. "Lexa… Major Lexa Woods."

Lexa froze at the mention. "You've gone through my pockets."

"Yes. I had a sliver of hope you had something useful in them."

Other than the torn out name tag Lexa had always meant to sew back but never found the time or patience to do, she knew Clarke had found nothing else.

"Will you tell me your full name then?" She asked.

Clarke chuckled before biting into her apple. Her stare had mischief to it, lips quirked up into a smile, and Lexa suspected she was happy to have someone to talk to. Only it dawned on Lexa that they had nothing in common, not even the streets of Polis to reminisce on. Clarke had been alone for years and Lexa only cared to remember the days after she joined the army and became a valuable member of Polisian society. Just an hour ago she had her arm at the woman's neck and now they sat at a table sharing a meal. Were they supposed to talk about the weather?

"Relax a little," Clarke said. "You're so tense you might break another rib just by sitting."

"I can't _relax_ , I can barely even breathe," Lexa gritted between her teeth.

Clarke cupped her mug of tea and grew more serious. "I'd prefer waiting the evening to give you another dose. Would that be manageable?"

Lexa nodded though her body seemed to tense at the prospect. Feeling numb and in a haze was unsettling but the alternative option was starting to rear its ugly head and Lexa didn't look forward to the rest of the day.

"It's possible you're feeling withdrawal," Clarke cautioned with an apologetic wince. "I had to double the injections otherwise you kept waking up. To be clear, I… I'm not a chemist. I know the basics and I took the risk with what I made a while ago."

Lexa blanched. "You're saying… there was a possibility you were poisoning me?"

"Well—yes. Jag flipped a cog for me. For what it's worth it turned out pretty well. I'm much better at mixing plants than I thought I was."

"Congratulations," Lexa deadpanned.

"I can hear your sarcasm but I elect not to respond." Clarke stood up and grabbed their bowls. "You're welcome, by the way."

Lexa wiped her hands on a threadbare square of fabric. "I'm sorry—yes, thank you. How did you manage this?"

Clarke furrowed her brows. It was only oatmeal, honey, and fruit. It was only tea with leaves from the greenhouse. Lexa guessed it was the same food she'd had for years; nothing exceptional to her, but a treasure for a soldier used to poorly flavored meats and bitter drinks. She said as much:

"If people knew the land was fertile, it wouldn't be neutral ground for long."

Clarke mouthed an _ah_ of understanding before putting her hair up. It was nothing like an army updo, nothing like a regular one for that matter, more hair out of the loose elastic than in. Lexa could admit it was… charming in its way. It'd been a while since she was in the company of a civilian—the curiosity was natural.

"I don't use the forest ground," Clarke clarified. "If you're feeling well enough to walk, I could show you the greenhouse."

As Clarke motioned toward a back door, Lexa felt what naturally came to all soldiers when confronted with the unknown: heightened caution. Rationally, whatever danger was potentially outside would not have waited for Lexa to finish her meal. Lexa had been unconscious for two nights—anyone who wanted her dead would've done the job then. If it was information they wanted, time was crucial. No soldier would've waited out an interrogation, especially not when her pain could be used to their advantage.

Despite her gnawing hesitancy, the desire for answers won out. Lexa stood with the help of the table and followed Clarke out the door. She was curious to learn how a woman-not-a-chemist survived in the inhabited and inhospitable depth of the forest.

The breeze that passed through just as Lexa stepped outside nearly made her toes curl in pleasure. The house wasn't stuffy but nothing could compare to fresh air and the morning sun. Lexa fought the urge to take a deep breath and she envied Clarke when she heard her long and satisfied exhale.

As Lexa took in her surroundings, she could understand why someone would want to settle here. The two-story house looked small from the outside, its sturdy stone walls partially covered in vines, but there were plenty of windows for light. A sizeable well was connected to the house by three pipes and Lexa guessed there was a plumbing system in place. If cloudbursts weren't so frequent, though, she wondered if there was some sort of reserve.

However long Clarke had lived here, it was apparent the house had been built with a lifelong stay in mind. With the surroundings providing few resources, an architect must've made sure that both need and a certain level of comfort were met. It wasn't palatial by any stretch of the mind, but it was more than an attic and a skylight.

Lexa stepped inside the greenhouse behind Clarke and felt herself tense when she saw Jag standing in the corner with his arms by his side. He towered over them by at least two feet and was considerably wider than the tire of a truck. Whatever hope Lexa had that she could outsmart the robot if need be, it vanished rather quickly. Clarke hadn't been bluffing: her brain and tired body were no match for brawn and speed this considerable.

"Everything you ate came from here," Clarke explained from her spot near dewberries ripening on thorny vines. "I didn't take much when I left but seeds and soil were common sense."

Clarke turned to Jag and opened a latch on his stomach. Inside was a compact mass of organic matter. Clarke took a small handful and spread it around her palm. "Jag was originally just a composter, so he carries about forty pounds of this beauty at all time. Not fun when I have to clean him out, though."

She wiped her hands and closed the latch before moving toward a row of flowering plants. Distracted by the hanging pots and leafy greens in short but organized lines, Lexa nearly missed a step and winced in pain. Clarke was by her side in the blink of an eye.

"Is it your ribs?"

Lexa's hand hovered over her sides, yearning to touch but knowing it would only make it worse. 

"It isn't bad. How long has this taken you?" She asked instead. 

Clarke smiled with clear pride. "A few years. I started small. Boredom is conducive to a green thumb."

Lexa had guessed as much. It was one thing to cultivate a garden on your own, it was another to have an entire greenhouse in the middle of a no man's land. The result was impressive. Lexa hadn't seen this many thriving blooms in a long time.

"Oh don't give me too much credit," Clarke said while turning around. "Jag does most of the work."

Lexa had an inkling that wasn't true but didn't dare contradict the statement with the robot so close by. Some of them had tempers. She limped in Clarke's direction but stopped when she noticed a bright green plant with thin, spread out leaves. Her smile couldn't be contained if she tried. She looked at Clarke:

"And do you enjoy your high while he does it?"

Clarke swiveled around, eyes wide when she saw the plant Lexa stood next to.

"That—well—strictly for medicinal purposes," she stammered. "Did I mention I get bored quite a bit?"

Lexa smirked at the red on Clarke's cheeks. "I'm sure."

"All right don't be smug, Major. I know soldiers smoke like chimneys."

Lexa nodded, remembering the plumes of acrid smoke in the cold camp air. "Soldiers know it won't be what kills them. Never picked up the habit myself."

With a quiet huff and muttered words, Clarke walked down the narrow path between tomato plants and dwarf apple trees. She disappeared from view and Lexa let out a quiet chuckle, amused by Clarke's sudden embarrassment. She found her near large bushels of oats that looked out of place but were certainly thriving. Lexa suddenly wished she had some sort of notebook to write down what she felt.

Growing up in Polis had made her yearn for nature while settling in the forest for the last four years had rendered her homesick. The soldiers who knew her best teased that she was a poor settler, doomed to be restless wherever her new home was. The glasshouse wasn't a home or even a place one could lie down in and rest, but Lexa was at ease here. She liked its openness best, liked that the sunlight could pour in but the rain would not. It was quiet, not one bullet whistling past her, not one cog spinning, not one clock ticking. Plants grew and flowers bloomed, an unlikely feat on this side of the world. That Clarke had crossed the ill forest and brought life into it, even in a contained space, was remarkable.

In a corner and pressed against the glass walls was a small cluttered desk with gardening tools and what Lexa assumed were blueprints for various plans of expansion around the greenhouse and house. The more creative drawings caught her attention.

"You sketch." It wasn't a question, merely a general wonder. Many soldiers took to drawing but Lexa herself had never really indulged in it. She appreciated the look of it though, the glimpses at someone's mind through the lines of their pencil. Clarke seemed particularly interested in aircrafts, some small and entirely unrealistic, others that could carry a regiment.

"I used to," Clarke corrected. "Haven't touched a pencil in a while. There's only so much inspiration you can get from the same trees all year round."

"Some of these don't seem to require a model," Lexa mused.

"My imagination's not all that interesting anymore," Clarke said in a sudden curt tone. "Besides, I ran out of paper a while ago."

Lexa stiffened at the sudden change in Clarke's demeanor, regretting that she had even brought the drawings up. It wasn't her business what the civilian did in her spare time.

"Thank you for showing me this place," she deflected. "I haven’t seen anything like it. If I can help in any way—"

"You'd be a damn fool for it," Clarke chided with a click of her tongue. Ah, there was that term again. "If it were up to me you'd still be in bed. Don't let me catch you with your knees in my soil."

Lexa bristled. "Forgive me for trying to be polite."

Clarke narrowed her eyes and took a step toward her. She was much closer than Lexa was comfortable with but challenging her seemed unwise. Lexa felt her own pride sting at the thought. No soldier had ever stood so boldly in front of her and to let this woman—this woman with Akardian blood in her veins and no weapon in sight— _fluster_ her was an embarrassment.

"Listen to me, Major," Clarke said in a low voice. "I didn't waste two nights giving you my bed and my blood for you to treat your body like a rag. This is not a war you fight me in. Understood?"

Lexa flexed her jaw, her response burning her throat. "Yes."

"Good. I'm glad we agree." 

They stood staring a moment longer before Lexa felt her body grow taut. Whether it was from the walk or their argument, she was exhausted. 

"I think I'll rest now," she announced with poorly concealed indignation. It was unlike her to show emotion so plainly and she cursed both her wounds and the drugs in her body for it. Control had slipped away too easily and Clarke treating her like an invalid would take some getting used to. She couldn't help the shame that had quickly settled in her gut like poison. If her mentor ever caught wind of this...

She turned around and walked toward the entrance door where Jag had started to collect fallen leaves into an open latch at his side.

" _Lexa_."

She stopped, taking a shallow breath before she looked over her shoulder. Clarke approached her like she would a wounded animal.

"If the pain gets worse, I won't wait until tonight to relieve it. I promise."

Lexa swallowed hard, suddenly aware it _would_  get worse. Maybe Clarke had been right and the withdrawal was the reason for her sudden irritation. Her body ached for something strong to soothe her, even now when the pain was manageable, or at least not the searing hell she had felt in the forest. Before she could walk away again, Clarke cleared her throat.

"Will you need help up the stairs?"

The offer made Lexa pause this time, but she clung to the shred of pride she could at least retain.

"No," she croaked. "That'll be all right."

Clarke let out a small chuckle, far from surprised. "Rest well, then."

Lexa nodded, oddly relieved she would not leave the greenhouse feeling so ridiculously mad after all. "Thank you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've loved reading your thoughts on this story. Feel free to swing by my [tumblr](https://madeinspace.tumblr.com) with any questions. xx


	4. Chapter 4

There was paper on the standing desk in the bedroom. It was the first thing Lexa remembered as she trudged back up the stairs. She leaned against the handrail and wondered why Clarke had lied about something so insignificant. The drawings she'd seen in the greenhouse were good, some of them even remarkably intricate. Perhaps it had just been Clarke's way of ending a conversation she wasn't comfortable with. Lexa had pried. Soldiers didn't pry unless ordered to.

Lexa made it into the room and settled on the bed with an exhausted sigh. She stared at the ceiling beams and wished she could turn over on her side for quicker sleep. Her fingers twitched against the sheets and she closed her eyes to focus on something else, anything to forget her body's pitiful state. She had started to sweat when she dragged herself up the stairs—a stubborn dolt indeed—and now it was difficult to remember why she had refused Clarke's offer to help.

It was merely a few hours ago that they were properly introduced. That was the justification Lexa had grumbled to herself once inside the house. There were only so many times she could show weakness. Now that the fever was kept at bay and she wasn't so delirious, she at least had more control over her actions.

Accepting her need for a substance she hadn't willingly taken was another matter. There were few desires that Lexa had satisfied since she joined the army and it was maddening that it took just a few days for her body to yield so easily to whatever eased its pain.

Though she admittedly didn't recognize all the plants in the greenhouse, she couldn't think of a combination that could've made such a potent drug. With a crease between her brows, Lexa wondered if Clarke found her missing ingredients in the woods that surrounded them. The noxious flora had to have some purpose on this earth. It was obvious that, for whatever reason, Clarke had downplayed her knowledge. Despite her young age, she had training in medicine and the critical thinking required from army medics, too. Lexa would bet a limb on it.

For now Lexa closed her eyes and thought back on the glasshouse. She hadn't felt such peace in a long time. She'd been surrounded by nature for years now, but the forest was their battleground. Every flower they encountered was sure to be trampled by the end of the day, every sapling soon to become firewood, and every bird flying away a sign that the enemy could be creeping close by. The greenhouse had felt like the respite she'd waited for the last four years. It was thinking back on the colorful blooms that eventually put the Major to sleep. Her fingers loosened and her heartbeat found a gentle rhythm for the first time in days.

But there was one thing she had learned over the years: good sleep never lasted long enough. 

Lexa woke up with a dry mouth and a burning sensation spreading from her leg to her back. Without thinking, she took a deep breath and cried out in pain when her ribcage expanded. Suddenly it felt like bags of bricks had been stacked atop her chest to crush her into the mattress. She couldn't breathe without the Soldier's Prayer coming to mind.

A cold, wet cloth was pressed against her forehead. Lexa's eyes blinked open and she frowned at the sunlight. It was difficult to see Clarke clearly, but the feather-light press of her fingers on her wrist felt gentle enough that Lexa chased away the Prayer once more. She kept her eyes on Clarke's profile as she steadied her breathing.

Clarke seemed unperturbed by the sudden jerk of Lexa's body. She held her wrist in place as she dabbed another damp cloth around her stitches.

"Are you sure you're not a soldier?" Lexa asked with a rasp. "You have the footsteps of one."

Clarke kept her eyes on the wound. "I'm not sure what that means."

Lexa looked away for a second. She wondered why talking felt easier than breathing. "I'm usually good at hearing people approach me."

Clarke set the cloth aside and picked up a small vial. "Well, you aren't entirely yourself."

"That must be it."

At the stinging sensation over her smaller open wounds, Lexa hissed and attempted to retract her arm. Clarke was quicker, keeping it firmly in place on her lap.

"Come on, you've felt worse than this."

Lexa's hand formed a fist and she stared at the ceiling with a scowl. "You didn't warn me you would do that."

Clarke looked up, seemingly unimpressed. "I'm sorry. Next time I'll sing you a song and kiss it all better. Will that be suitable warning?"

Lexa turned her head just so that Clarke would see her glare. The Arkadian was already checking her bad leg with sedulous care and Lexa could not say it was entirely unpleasant. After all it was thanks to her efforts that she was alive.

"I understand bullet wounds," Clarke murmured. "But that cut on your wrist was deep. You're lucky you only touched flesh."

"How do you know it was by my hand?"

"It's a precise incision. You knew what you were looking for."

"That sounds an awful lot like a compliment."

Clarke let out a soft chuckle, a soft rasp to it as if she too had been sleeping just a moment ago. "No. It was idiotic. You could've nicked a vein."

Lexa remembered having the same thought when she smashed her tracker into the ground.

"You'll find I know what I'm doing every so often," she mused.

Clarke capped the vial and set it aside. "Major Woods, was that an attempt at humor?"

"It appears so."

"Hm. The fever must be coming back."

Lexa closed her eyes, lulled by Clarke's calming presence. A sudden chill crept into the room and she shivered. With the sun being so bright, Lexa couldn't understand the sudden need for warmth.

"Have you really burnt my uniform?"

"No," Clarke sighed. "But you're not on camp. Let me get you a quilt."

Lexa frowned as she watched Clarke look for a clean quilt in the corner of the room. She always slept with her jacket on when she was cold. It was much more comforting than the army's scratchy squares of wool.

Another shiver wracked Lexa's frame and she realized then it wasn't cold her body was reacting to. She wiped a shaky hand over her cheek and felt a thin layer of sweat. Her heart had started to beat faster again and suddenly it felt as if she'd faint at any moment.

"I, I think that—"

Clarke had already draped the quilt over her legs. "I'll be right back. _Stay still._ "

Lexa dug her fingers into the mattress and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to breathe rather than panic. There it was again: the agonizing pull of unbridled pain. She ached to reach down and touch her leg, perhaps even rip out the stitches there, but it was her damn ribs that she cursed the most, as if the cracked end of the bone was digging into her lung. How long would this take? How many more days in this bed, this house? How long until the war turned bloodier? She was missing it all—everything she had sworn herself to a decade ago.

None of it would've happened if she had gone the right way, if in her escape she had refused to let fear and pain erase years of experience.

Every inch of her burned and perhaps that was her punishment.

Footsteps hurried up the stairs and into the room. Clarke looked frazzled and out of breath herself, as if she had opened every drawer and every cupboard to find what she was looking for. Lexa couldn't tear her eyes away from it: the single syringe with the honey-toned liquid inside it. She swallowed hard, eyes flickering between her pale arm and the object in Clarke's hands.

"I don't think I can wait the night."

"You don't have to," Clarke reassured. Lexa picked up on something else, though, and it became clear that Clarke was afraid too. 

"What's wrong?" Lexa asked.

Clarke sat on the chair by Lexa's bed and tightened a ribbon around Lexa's arm.

"Don't keep me in the dark," Lexa ordered, frustrated by the silence.

"There's this one and another left," Clarke reminded her. "It won't be enough. I can't start a new batch; it takes weeks. You had to make things so damn ugly for yourself—"

"Clarke."

The troubled Arkadian met her gaze and took a breath. "I'm sorry."

Lexa shook her head. "Don't be. Whatever comes, I'll take it."

There wasn't much Lexa remembered after that. Clarke had found the right vein with practiced ease and suddenly Lexa found herself sinking into the mattress. Her mind went blank and her body relaxed as she slumbered. 

By the time Lexa woke up, hours had passed. The setting sun was painting the room a rosy hue and the pain in her body was no more than a dull ache. She understood now how she'd found it so easy to pin Clarke to the ground without doubling over in pain.

Lexa got out of bed and felt sudden relief when she spotted her jacket on the back of the chair Clarke had sat on. She put it on immediately and felt comforted by its weight on her shoulders. With her tracker gone, Lexa couldn't stand the thought of being further removed from her status as a soldier. She was glad Clarke hadn't gotten rid of her uniform after all.

Lexa made it out of the room and sighed at the sight of the dreaded stairs. They would be easier this time around but she would feel their impact later. She made her way down as carefully as possible and paused at the bottom to survey the kitchen and what looked like a living room with a library. She wondered if Clarke had read every book on the wooden shelves.

Before stepping outside, Lexa picked an apple from the bowl in the kitchen and slipped it in her pocket. She buttoned her jacket and ventured out the front door. The breeze had gotten cooler but Lexa was glad to feel the pleasant humidity of the grass between her toes. She spotted Clarke a few feet away, who wore her goggles and large gloves as she welded what looked like an iron box.

Lexa only approached her once the shower of sparks had stopped. "You're working on… a box."

Clarke didn't startle; barely even acknowledged Lexa's presence at all. "Nothing gets past you."

"Is it for storage?" Lexa asked. It seemed she'd forgotten not to pry.

"Letters."

The answer was surprising, even amusing all things considered. Lexa decided to entertain the thought. "And do you get many letters?"

Clarke seemed unimpressed by her quip. She blew on the edge of the box. "I don't have an address."

Lexa nodded, but felt in a prodding mood. "Your neighbors must think you're awfully lonely."

Clarke stood up and lifted her goggles atop her head. "I think I preferred you passed out."

Lexa smiled. "I'm sorry to disappoint."

Clarke sighed as she took off her gloves and dropped them atop the box. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better than I probably should."

"The more rest, the quicker you can manage the pain without drugs."

Lexa nodded, though she didn't care to follow those particular orders just now. "I'm going to stretch my legs."

Clarke stepped in front of her. "I'm sorry—did you become deaf?"

"I can't walk to Polis if my legs lose all muscle."

Clarke took a deep breath. "You know what your problem is, Major? You're so worried about the future that you don't realize the present is what's ruining you."

Lexa froze at the words. She'd heard them before. Her jaw locked and she couldn't stop the memory of her soldiers spilling out of their tents with their mouths bloody and their eyes wide open. She couldn't help remembering how naïve she'd been to believe it was tomorrow they had to fear.

Clarke seemed to realize her words had more effect than she intended. "I shouldn't have said that."

Lexa looked toward the high grass and the bottom of the hill, the very same place she'd met the woman in front of her. It was cloaked in darkness now and Lexa remembered she had left behind something very precious that she intended to retrieve. She shook her head and moved past Clarke. 

"I won't be long."

Lexa walked toward the spot and did her best to think of anything else but the blood on her camp. She scrutinized the ground for the knife that had fallen out of her sheath a few days ago. Just as she saw a glint of something in the grass, a leaf moved and a deer mouse peeked its head out.

"Zoran," Lexa recalled in surprise. "I thought I'd made you up."

The mouse had little care for what Lexa had to say, its scraggly body searching for food or water in vain. Lexa remembered the apple in her pocket. She picked it out and bit off a small piece to throw at the famished mouse.

"Are you wasting fruit on vermin, Major?"

Lexa startled and turned. If Clarke had not entrenched herself in the depths of nowhere, she would've found herself a good vocation as a spy.

"I thought I could spare it a bite."

Her smile slowly fell as Clarke observed the mouse with contempt. Lexa straightened her spine and held her ground.

"What's a bite to such a small thing?" She asked.

Clarke stood closer. "Do you know what small things get up to once they're fat and content?"

Lexa cleared her throat. "I would imagine they make... more small things."

"That's right. And do you also imagine where they would find enough food to feed their young?"

Lexa's throat bobbed with a hard swallow. "I suppose your greenhouse would not make them unhappy."

It was a fortunate thing that Zoran had already lost interest and found its way back up the hill. Lexa pocketed the apple. 

"I'm sorry."

Clarke seemed embarrassed. "No, look, I—I came to say that I don't mean to act like such a hound. I haven't been around anyone in a long time and… I'm a little set in my ways. Once in a while a few rodents find their way inside and—"

Lexa shook her head. "There's no need to explain yourself. You've offered me your home and all I've done is drain your resources. Whatever rules you have, I'll abide by them."

Clarke smiled in relief. "I suppose we could discuss it over dinner."

"I'd like that."

"I'm making soup."

"That sounds nice." The lie came quickly. Lexa had a particular distaste for soup. On camp it was nothing more than beans and salt sitting in hot water. It hadn't been different in her childhood but at least there had been fresh bread to soak it up.

"You must be terrible at poker," Clarke laughed. "But I think I can get you to like it. If you're up to it, you could peal the potatoes and shell the peas."

It was an ironic task to be given after years of being trained to use her knives to kill, but Lexa was glad to do anything.

"Yes, yes, I would." As the words rushed out she remembered her intention coming here. "Though if you don't mind I'd like to take advantage of the fresh air until sundown."

Clarke nodded. "Of course. I still have some cleaning up to do anyway. I'll see you inside, then."

Lexa waited until Clarke had left and lit the kitchen lamps before resuming her search. Once she found her knife, she bit the insides of her cheeks and leaned down to pick it up. She slid it in the pocket of her jacket.

As she watched the house from afar, Lexa hoped she would have no reason to use the weapon before her departure.


	5. Chapter 5

Making dinner was a quiet affair. It had been a long day and although Lexa wasn't entirely sure what Clarke had been up to in the afternoon, she could tell the woman was looking forward to a good night's sleep. She remembered what Clarke had said about being woken up by her cries of pain and hoped it wouldn't happen again. With luck, the drug would last long enough that it knocked her out through the night.

Clarke placed the two bowls—chipped around the edges but smoothed out by years of use—on the table and sat down opposite Lexa with a content sigh.

Lexa picked up her spoon but paused when she noticed the blue chicory flower sitting in her soup.

"Makes it a little fancier than war grub," Clarke said with a lovely blush on her cheeks.

Lexa noticed the same flower in Clarke's soup and nodded wordlessly. It was a homely touch; one Clarke might be used to doing for herself, perhaps even a tradition that reminded her of home. Lexa was suddenly curious about Clarke's family—if they were looking for her, if they were even alive.

"It's edible," Clarke hurried to add.

"Yes, I know."

Lexa had eaten enough chicory to last her a lifetime. This felt different, however, something about a home-cooked meal being presented so prettily. Lexa carefully spooned the flower out and set it on the clean piece of cloth that served as a napkin.

"When I was around seven or eight, I used to collect these in a herbarium," Lexa shared. It was a fleeting thought, pulling a quick smile on her face before it faded just as swiftly. She didn't particularly care about her childhood; there weren't many fond memories there. Perhaps the recent… free time was facilitating nostalgia. It was a dangerous path.

She shook her head and picked up her spoon. "It looks delicious. Thank you."

Clarke stirred around the vegetables in her own bowl. "Your help was appreciated."

"I'm a pitiful potato peeler."

The sad truth made Clarke chuckle. "If it's any consolation, Jag is just as unskilled. He has trouble understanding the concept."

"Oh, well, if the robot isn't good at it, that makes me feel much better."

Clarke bit her bottom lip to keep her smile from spreading into a full grin. They ate in relative silence, Lexa digging her free hand into her thigh to stop herself from humming every time she swallowed a mouthful.

"I knew I would get you to like it," Clarke eventually boasted. She had finished her own bowl and was ready to serve herself another. Lexa was almost fearful she would finish it all, but Clarke had made enough to last this evening and the next.

"May I?" Lexa pointed to the pot.

"Of course."

Lexa grabbed the ladle and served herself a generous portion. She was thankful Clarke didn't seem to mind the soldier she had taken in was acting like a starved woman with few table manners.

"That mouse outside…" Clarke recalled aloud, changing the subject. "Why Zoran?"

Lexa raised a brow, confused for a moment.

"I heard you call it that name," Clarke clarified. "It made me curious."

"Oh. Yes." Lexa's grip tightened on the spoon. "Zoran was the Polisian boy who was shot down by—" she meant to say 'one of yours' when she remembered Clarke had distanced herself from her people, "—an Arkadian soldier."

Regardless of the change in wording, Clarke suddenly blanched. The mood had changed in the blink of an eye. "I see," she murmured.

Lexa wished she could pick apart her thoughts. She could only guess Clarke felt shame for what her people had done in cold blood. It wasn't an uncommon feeling—Lexa herself had trouble accepting her own people's retaliation. Innocent blood had been spilt on both sides.

"They say his death started this war," Lexa continued. " _The shot heard in both cities._ In the army it's become tradition that Zoran be the name assigned to unidentified men, to creatures, even missions. It's our way to make sure he isn't forgotten."

Clarke had stopped eating, staring at her bowl with misty eyes. Lexa set her own spoon aside, taken aback.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm sorry," Clarke croaked. "I, I need some air."

Clarke's chair scraped against the floor as she suddenly got up and left the kitchen. The back door opened and Lexa stared at Clarke's empty seat, her stomach twisting. She had been too blunt, too coarse. Clarke hadn't asked for details. She berated herself; _you should've said Zoran is a boy we lost and now honor. Nothing more._

Lexa debated whether or not she should follow. It wasn't her place. Clarke wanted air. Earlier, Lexa had already upset her with the drawings, with her stubbornness—three times in a day was a goddamn feat. But Lexa couldn't bring herself to sit and wait.

She stood up, taking the drying chicory and slipping it in her pocket, and ventured out of the house with measured steps, more careful now that a few hours had passed since she last took the drugs.

Lexa noticed the small flicker of light in the greenhouse and walked toward it, only stopping short when Jag came out and blocked the entrance. His arms were by his side and he stood like a faithful sentinel. Lexa tensed, knowing what his purpose was.

"I just want to talk."

He stared, not moving an inch. Lexa craned her neck but the double pane glass and the lush plants inside made it difficult to see anything other than green and other speckles of color.

"Is she all right?"

Jag hunched slightly, his screws squeaking, but remained in his spot. Lexa knew he had received an order. She considered going around the greenhouse before she realized this wasn't a situation she had any training in. What could she say? She barely had a good grasp on her own feelings.

She turned around and stepped back inside the house, waiting in the kitchen for a few minutes before she became restless and started cleaning up. She covered the rest of their food and cleaned the table and counter with army diligence. After she was done, she walked back and forth between the kitchen and the back door, waiting for Jag to move from his spot. Unsurprisingly, he remained there until Lexa's body tired. If only she had the tireless strength he did. She ended up in the living room, looking for anything to occupy her mind. Sleeping through the afternoon had completely thrown her habits.

Lexa had brushed her fingers over the spines of several books before she noticed Clarke's grapple gun propped against a frayed armchair. Curious, she picked up the weapon and was immediately surprised by how light it was. She had been certain she would need to use a little more muscle to carry it, but it was no heavier than two pistols. Just as lethal, too, though it obviously required a closer range. Lexa wondered if Clarke had ever needed to use it.

"You're holding it wrong."

Lexa nearly dropped the thing to the floor. She met Clarke's eyes and stood straight.

"I thought you were still outside," Lexa murmured. 

"I thought you'd gone to bed."

"Yes, well—"

"You're a soldier," Clarke reminded herself with a sigh. "You've got clockwork inside you. And because you slept through the day, you think you'd be wasting time sleeping now. Am I close?"

"Something like that."

The silence that followed was deafening and Lexa couldn't bear it for long. Despite the dim lights, she had noticed the redness of Clarke's cheeks and the fatigue in her eyes.

"At least carry her properly," Clarke said.

Lexa frowned. 

Clarke walked toward her and ran her index along the grapple gun. "This beauty."

"Oh. Sorry, I was—"

"Curious. Why wouldn't you be? It's my best work," Clarke claimed.

Lexa adjusted her grip. "Like this?"

"No." Clarke held Lexa's wrist and turned it gently so the weapon was slightly tilted. "The grapple cord always shoots out going left. Off-center, you see. But if you tilt the gun to the right, you should get a straight shot."

Lexa found it fitting that Clarke's gun would have something particular about it. She turned her head and found herself staring into Clarke's eyes, much closer than she'd realized they were. They were slightly swollen, tear tracks betraying her. Lexa had an urge to make Clarke smile again.

"That's good to know."

Clarke arched a brow, content to remain just as close. "Why? Are you planning on using it anytime soon?"

"Well, if there's ever vermin sniffing around your greenhouse again, I'll know how to shoot it straight."

"You've come a long way since wanting to feed it."

"I'm a fast learner."

"What about Zoran?"

Lexa hesitated. "Perhaps I could put him in my pocket and carry him far away. Close to the mountains."

"Oh yes, a long walk to icy terrain is _just_ what your body needs."

Lexa bit her lip. "Perhaps not."

Clarke considered her for a moment before a smile tugged at her lips. "I think it's time for me to turn in."

Clarke took the grapple gun and stepped aside. Lexa watched her open an empty trunk and set the weapon inside.

"I do apologize," Lexa said. "For earlier."

Clarke stiffened before turning to face her. "You were just answering my question."

"I chose my words poorly. It wasn't my intention to make you feel guilty of anything."

Clarke sat down and started untying her boots. "I've carried guilt long before you fell into my front yard."

Lexa took the opening. "I won't lie—I am curious."

"About my past?"

"About you. Here, alone. I can't help but wonder if you fled Arkadia out of obligation rather than choice."

Clarke hesitated a moment. She looked up. "Does it matter?"

Lexa deflated. Did it matter what she knew about the woman who had saved her? Lexa would leave eventually and Clarke would stay here. In time, they would both be distant memories to each other. "I suppose not."

The sad smile on Clarke's face nearly made her reconsider. Clarke took off her boots and got up.

"Clarke, wait, I—"

The dim light still brightened her face and Lexa thought she saw apprehension in her eyes. The past would have to wait.

"I find that I stink," she blurted out.

Clarke blinked, catching up with the meaning behind the words.

"Nothing foul, I don't think," Lexa hurried to add. "But if there was a wash bowl somewhere..."

Clarke shook her head with a small laugh. "Believe me, I don't think anyone would survive here very long if all they had to wash was a bowl and a rag."

Lexa opened her mouth and closed it, perplexed.

"I go to the waterfall every two-day," Clarke explained.

"The waterfall," Lexa repeated.

"Small and cold, but powerful. We can wash the rest of your uniform there, too."

Lexa felt dizzy. "I thought—these are the dead woods, aren't they? Why is it that every hour I learn about the new riches that surround us."

Clarke shrugged. "You focus only on the dead part. It isn't entirely that. Besides, we're much closer to the mountain chain than you seem to realize. The trees might not flower, but they still grow. The earth might not be fertile, but insects still burrow in the ground. There are rodents here that I know will outlive me."

"If there's water, the soil close to it might be fertile. It would take much less time if—"

"I can assure you we tried to use the ground around us many times. But dead things don't grow no matter how much you water their graves."

"We?" Lexa asked.

Clarke hesitated. "My father—" she stammered before pressing on. "He lived here before I ever did. His own parents built this house, this place. My father added to it, like the well, and made sure it didn't rely solely on rainwater." 

So the pipes that connected the well to the house continued deep in the ground. The place was truly a wonder. But it remained much closer to Polis than Arkadia, which could only mean—

"Your father is Polisian," Lexa realized.

Clarke shook her head. "You and I both know no civilian is allowed to walk both cities." 

"He became Arkadian," Lexa concluded. "For your mother?"

Clarke brushed a hand over the black thread around her wrist. "Yes. But that's a story for another time. One day awake and you have me babbling."

"I don't mean to—"

"Enough of that. I didn't say I disliked it."

Lexa rubbed the back of her neck.

"Can you stand your smell for one more night?" Clarke asked. "From my standpoint it isn't bad, and your wounds are still clean."

"I've lived in forest camps for four years. That's four years of wash bowls and the mucky river. I'll gladly wait the night for a waterfall."

Clarke nodded with a small smile. "You'll see, there isn't anything like freezing freshwater to shake the sleep out of you. We'll have to cover your stitches, but your other bruises will appreciate it."

"I look forward to it."

"Great. Now, will you come up the stairs with me for once, or do I have to boot Jag out of his sleep state to carry you?"

Lexa flushed. "I'm not in pain. The medication—"

"Jag gets very cranky after sleep state."

"Really, I—"

"He doesn't really care for protests either."

Lexa let out a huff. "All right, fine." 

Ignoring Clarke's victorious aura, Lexa walked to the staircase and stood at the bottom with a hesitant hand on the handrail. Unsurprisingly, going up the stairs was much more strenuous than going down. Lexa could not yet feel every burn and pull of her muscles, but she knew the ache would be there in the morning. Clarke matched her pace and Lexa had never felt so damn old. Once they reached the top, Lexa's hand hovered over her ribs. Exercise made her breath pick up and breathing hard made her ribcage feel like it was cracking. It was a frustrating cycle. 

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Clarke gently said. 

Lexa looked up. She had avoided the help for precisely this reason. Clarke was a witness to each pathetic step. 

"You aren't weak for healing," Clarke murmured. "As far as I'm concerned, you've shown more strength than I thought was even possible."

Lexa let the words sink, her shoulders relaxing. She realized then there was only one room and closet space up the stairs. "Clarke... where do you sleep?"

"What do you mean? Did you not see that perfectly good armchair downstairs?" 

"I assumed as much," Lexa frowned. "What if you took back your bed and I slept in the living room instead? These stairs wouldn't be a problem anymore." 

Clarke stared at her a few seconds before she turned and started back down the stairs. "Good night, Lexa," she called out. 

Lexa had another argument on her lips before she sighed, defeated. "Good night, Clarke."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even sorry for the trope that's gonna follow this. Thank you for reading! xx


	6. Chapter 6

Lexa woke up to her muscles cramping and her hands trembling. Her sweat was cold and for a moment, in the second between sleep and a state of awareness, she was certain she'd passed over to whatever came after life. It was the hammering of her heart and the chills down her spine that dispelled her sudden doubt. There was one matter that Lexa knew for certain: she would not die in her sleep. She would not die before she saw the end of the war; before she walked the grimy cobblestone streets of her city again; before she ate one last slice of sweet bread from the bakery near her childhood home. Judging by the footsteps she heard coming up, it seemed her healer would make sure of it as well.

Lexa let out a wry chuckle as she remembered her present situation with painful clarity. It wasn't a story many would believe; from days in the sweltering heat of the forest to the warm bed of a recluse. It sounded like something out of a fever dream, but it was all very real. Lexa's mind wouldn't have conjured such an obstinate woman by her side. _Obstinate but generous as well_ , Lexa politely amended to herself.

She sat up against her damp pillow, wincing at the state of the sheets bunched up at the foot of the bed. If she'd had a nightmare, she couldn't remember a flash of it.

"I made a bet with myself that you'll have more bruises by the time you leave."

Lexa's knuckles were still deep in the mattress from trying to push herself up when she saw Clarke standing in the doorway.

"And?" She asked with a tired rasp.

Clarke seemed wholly unimpressed. "Believe it or not, I'd prefer to lose it. Do I need to strap you to the bed?"

"I'd snap my spine out of spite."

Clarke chuckled. "Now that I believe." She sat down on the chair by the bed and opened a wooden box that contained the last precious syringe. There were also clean cloths and what looked like shoelaces. Clarke pushed her hair behind her ears and took out the syringe.

"This is the last."

Lexa nodded. "Whatever comes," she repeated from the day before.

The force of habit made it easier. Lexa's body was no stranger to this kind of sting anymore, and she settled back against the pillow as relief washed over her. Sleeping through the night made it easier to stay awake this time.

"Are we going to the waterfall, then?" She asked with certain eagerness. Her skin felt like the type of glue trap her regiment used to put out to keep mosquitoes and ants at bay during the summer nights. She was desperate to wash off the sweat.

Clarke had already set out to clean and dress her wounds with the same focus as yesterday. She tied the piece of cloth around her wrist and then secured it with one of the shoelaces.

"We are. You've stunk up my bedroom long enough."

Lexa opened her mouth to apologize, but Clarke smiling at her own quip made her sulk.

"You've brought this upon yourself…"

Clarke now fully grinned at the brooding soldier in her bed. "What a monstrous thing I did, saving a woman lying defenseless on her back; bleeding on my grass… Just imagine that." She wrapped the last piece of cloth around Lexa's calf and tied it a little more tightly than she had before. "This should hold in the water. How do you feel?"

Lexa was incapable of denying the truth: she'd have died without the safe haven Clarke had provided. Her body was still in a miserable state, and the stabbing pain remained a challenge she had no wish to fully endure, but she could tell it was healing. She'd had enough wounds in her lifetime to recognize the signs.

"Nearly numb."

"Perfect. I've sent Jag to the waterfall with your uniform earlier. We're having a warm morning so it should be dry soon. I figured you'll feel more like yourself in it."

Lexa was about to thank her when she suddenly remembered, "Oh, my jacket—"

"Don't worry," Clarke curtly said as she gathered her belongings and stood up. "Your knife is on the table."

Sure enough, Lexa could see her favored blade right on the standing table. She looked away, heavy with sudden shame. She hadn't meant for Clarke to think she still considered her the enemy. It was just—it had only been days, and carrying a weapon at all times was what a soldier did… it was nothing personal.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Clarke nodded. "Come on then; the sooner the better."

As per Clarke's instructions, Lexa didn't bother taking off her sleeping clothes. She grabbed her boots and one of the pieces of cloth Clarke had left behind before following her down the stairs. It'd been too long since she'd cleaned herself properly and she was curious to see the aforementioned waterfall.

The weather was nice, sun peeking through the scraggly trees. Lexa briefly wondered just how far off the mountain chain was. Clarke had said they were close, but Lexa couldn't imagine having walked that far. It was one thing to have cut through the dead woodlands; it was another to have reached the mountains. If only she had the detailed maps her mentor had once shown her…

Lexa followed Clarke closely, choosing to remain silent as the woman pushed away branches and walked around boulders. Clarke seemed more withdrawn this morning, her eyes tired and her shoulders a little hunched. She carried her own change of clothes and a towel that looked too thin and too small to be of use. Walking behind her, Lexa noticed that the ends of Clarke's hair were cut unequally. She didn't know why it troubled her so deeply. Maybe because it was another reminder of Clarke's solitude; that even if she was very capable of living on her own, there were still things she needed another hand for. Things Jag could not understand, let alone attempt for her.

Lexa wondered if Clarke was truly content here, and then recalled the very first thing she had heard her say.

"Do you remember when you approached me that night?" Lexa asked.

Clarke looked over her shoulder. "You mean, the night you threw dirt in my eyes? I have a vague recollection."

Lexa bit her lip. "You said you'd been ready to shoot yourself out of boredom. Did you mean it?"

Clarke was quiet for a few seconds. "Of course not. Are you soldiers completely desensitized to humor?"

"Death isn't very humorous to us."

It was accusing and both knew it. Clarke turned around and stopped. "Do you have something to say?"

Lexa straightened her spine. "It seems to me, perhaps, that we both have weaknesses we work hard to conceal."

"Oh you don't fool anyone with your limp."

"You're lonely."

Clarke's smile slowly fell. "Is that what this is about? You pity me?"

Lexa shook her head, "No, I—"

"I've been living just fine so far. I don't need your— _your looks_."

"My looks?" Lexa asked, baffled.

"I'm not an orphan in an alley. _I_ saved _you_."

"I don't deny that," Lexa faltered.

"You're making up problems in my life to avoid focusing on your own. Stop it."

Lexa's jaw tensed with the need to retort, but Clarke had already turned around.

"It would be much easier for both of us if you acted in your best interests," Clarke added with a huff.

Lexa scowled. It was in no one's interests at all for soldiers to think of themselves first. She mulled over their conversations the entire walk, trying to find clues she had missed. It had seemed to her that Clarke enjoyed her company—not really hers, per se, but that she was human and able to talk back seemed exciting to Clarke—yet it also felt like she was careful to keep her at bay. Lexa wished she had become as good a judge of character as her Colonel had been.

She was pulled out of her thoughts when she heard the waterfall for the first time. Looking up, she watched as Clarke pushed away more branches and finally they emerged into a clearing much greener than what Lexa had seen in days. Mossy boulders and the thick trunks of century old trees surrounded them, and the waterfall's source was high above the cliff. Lexa was grateful this wasn't the type of cliff she had fallen from. The pool of water was clear and seemed deep enough to swim in. 

Lexa turned her head but nearly slipped on a wet rock when she saw Clarke pull her top over her head in one swift move, her hair cascading down her nude back. As if she were alone in the world, she pulled down her pants and worked next on undoing her tattered brassiere. Lexa's eyes widened and she looked away, focusing instead on her own clothing.

To be sure, she had long lost her unease when it came to bathing in front of others—soldiers had little time to take care of their own business, let alone worry about others'—but Clarke was still a civilian. Some decorum had to apply, even if Lexa had seen enough to feel once-familiar warmth spread through her body.

Back in Polis, before the war broke and when soldiers still had leave, Lexa wouldn't have hesitated to approach a woman like Clarke. Without her mended clothing, her heavy boots, her goggles, her handmade weapons, or her vials; without every little detail Lexa could already associate with Clarke, she looked just like any other civilian Lexa could've met in a bar. It was startling how easily Lexa could picture her sitting on a stool at the end of a counter, content to be left alone, or maybe content to reject anyone who tried to smooth-talk her into a nightcap elsewhere.

Lexa imagined herself in her early twenties, bolder, the way she was before the toll of war smothered her spirit. She would've bought Clarke a drink, Lexa decided. Clarke would've surely refused it out of spite—soldiers on leave were usually too confident for their own good, always throwing caution to the wind for the simple fact that life was too short—and Lexa, _unabashed, self-assured Lexa_ , would've been stupidly charmed. Yes… it was easy to imagine. But all too suddenly Lexa realized it was an improbable scenario even without a war surrounding them. Clarke would've been in Arkadia or here, in the forest everyone believed produced nothing more than death caps and vermin. The chances of meeting would've been slim to none.

As she untied the strings of her loose cotton pants and let them slide down her legs, Lexa remembered the distance hadn't stopped Clarke's parents from meeting. And that was another question she would keep to herself, though she figured they must've worked in the Polisian Council and the Arkadian Ministry. Decades before the war, governing officials made frequent trips between the two cities. It was encouraged in an effort to better their horribly strained relations, and had worked for a while until the program was abruptly terminated. Like most people, Lexa didn't have the details on who had ended it and why.

She let out a sudden groan of pain when she lifted her top over her head. A bad idea, for sure, even with drugs flowing through her body. 'Numb' had perhaps not been entirely true. Lexa looked down at the aching stretch of purple and brown beneath her breast and felt self-conscious for the first time in her life. It looked like a horse had trampled her body. She was in good shape from years of service, but the past week hadn't been merciful. She felt like a stranger in her own body; a no one in a no man's land. Fitting.

A splash brought her back to the present. Lexa blinked at the rippling water, barely able to see Clarke beneath the surface. She took advantage of it to awkwardly shuffle into the pool, her feet avoiding the sharper rocks. It was surprisingly refreshing; not the cold bite that Lexa had expected. She walked until the water came below her shoulders, and closed her eyes when she felt a streak of the morning sun catch on her face. 

"With the drugs in you, I think it'd be best if you stayed in the shallow part."

Lexa opened her eyes, suddenly remembering she wasn't alone. She looked toward Clarke and found herself at a loss for words. 

"What? Are your ears already clogged?" Clarke asked with mild amusement. When Lexa only stared back, her smile fell and she flicked water her way. "All right, you made your point. I won't bother you anymore."

Lexa shook her head. "I'm not bothered."

Clarke narrowed her eyes. "You're staring. I'd have thought you'd be used to seeing a naked woman."

When Lexa's mouth fell open, Clarke's smile turned into a slow grin, as if a window of opportunity had just opened. "Because you soldiers bathe in the same river, isn't that right?"

Lexa, now brought out of her stupor, swiftly nodded before turning around. This was not a conversation she'd entertain while naked and bruised. Feeling lighter thanks to the water, she tried her luck at a swim toward the waterfall.

"Oh don't be careless out of spite," Clarke called out. "You could puncture a lung!"

"I swam against harsh current with a bullet lodged in my leg; I can bathe without drowning," Lexa retorted aloud, stretching her right arm out. She could feel the pull at her ribs and gnashed her teeth, suddenly adamant on pushing herself.

Clarke seemed to go from peeved to angry. "You also tripped down a hill and cracked two ribs!"

But Lexa had already reached the waterfall, stubbornly letting it shower down on her. She gasped for breath, neck bent as it thundered around her and drowned everything else out. This was good. This was what she had hoped for—a complete cleanse from days in bed feeling entirely useless. She shuddered beneath the strong rush of water, welcoming the cold pressure on her back and the top of her head. She wasn't sure how long she stayed there, eyes shut so tight she started to see white spots. She felt a hand on her arm and jolted.

"Don't!" Lexa said, retracting her arm with force.

Clarke startled, putting her hands up as she watched Lexa's eyes blink, as if taking in her surroundings again.

"It's me," Clarke reminded her. _Where did you go?_

Lexa looked up at the waterfall and back at Clarke before she moved away from both. She stopped in the middle of the pool, feeling lightheaded.

"I'm sorry—I—I thought I was—"

"Somewhere else?" Clarke gently asked.

Lexa swallowed back the knot in her throat.

"How about we finish up and just head back?" Clarke offered. "I should've made breakfast first; given you the drug on a full stomach."

It was a rather polite way of saying she had been right to tell Lexa to pace herself. Lexa nodded, discomfited by her own reaction. As she looked around them, she realized there were no tents, horses, or disgruntled soldiers. There were no steam-tanks rolling toward them, no iron automatons firing bullets. There was nothing here but the woodland in its most undisturbed state. Her heart jumped when Jag gracelessly walked from behind a boulder carrying her uniform, but in broad daylight he almost looked gentle.

Clarke got out of the water to her rumpled pile of clothes, stretching out her arms high above her head. She seemed to enjoy the ray of sunlight that hit her nude body, but the moment was short-lived. Lexa took advantage of Clarke's turned back to reach Jag. He carried her pants, her now short-sleeved shirt, and her jacket on one arm, standing like he was nothing more than a coat rack.

"Thank you," Lexa whispered just in case.

She put on underclothes and her shirt first, teeth biting into her bottom lip when she leaned down. She wondered if her body was too accustomed for the drug to work as well. When she slipped into her pants, the familiar fabric felt irritating. She'd grown used to the soft cotton of Clarke's clothes. But finally wearing the uniform she'd known for a decade made her feel like she'd settled back in her own body. And yet… something didn't feel quite right.

She turned around and found Clarke looking at her the same way she had stared in the water.

"Never seen a uniform?" Lexa asked with a slight smile.

"Seen one a few days ago… looked a lot redder then."

Lexa was about to answer when she caught sight of Clarke's bare feet, and what looked like a scar that stretched around her ankle. She froze, recognizing what it meant, and Clarke stilled with her. Slowly, their eyes met, both aware of the other's thoughts.

It couldn't be— _it couldn't._

"What?" Clarke asked, suddenly defensive. "You think you're the only ones with trackers?"

Doubt settled in the pit of Lexa's stomach. "Arkadian trackers are worn around the right wrist."

"I wasn't a soldier," Clarke said coldly, without the hint of feeling. "I was a prisoner."

Lexa felt instinct kick in again. "On what grounds?"

"That's none of your business," Clarke scowled. 

Lexa remained silent, which seemed to upset Clarke even further, as if she felt scrutinized and hated the feeling more than anything else.

"What do you suppose? That I'm a killer?"

It was Lexa's unwavering gaze that made Clarke smile bitterly. "I see. It's a good thing you keep your knife close then, isn't it?"

When Lexa looked away, Clarke shook her head and quickly picked up her towel.

"Jag." His eyes glowed dimly. "We're going home."

He lifted his head and walked toward her, both of them disappearing behind the moss-covered boulders. Lexa watched until she couldn't hear their footsteps anymore. She stood against a tree and let herself slide down. _Home._ How long had this been home for Clarke? She had mentioned years… Had it been since the war broke? But how had an Arkadian prisoner—with the skills of a medic—found herself here?

Lexa had promised herself she wouldn't pry, but Clarke was not any civilian. She kept her true identity hidden; that much was clear. She could be anyone, truly, and Lexa felt torn between her intense curiosity and her manners. It was difficult to keep the questions at bay when every hour she found something about Clarke that stirred her suspicion. She wouldn't keep her last name a secret if it were unimportant; she wouldn't shelter herself from her city if she was a face amongst others. 

But who?

Lexa dug her fingers into the ground, picking at the humid moss. Whoever Clarke was, she wasn't hurting anyone.

 _Except perhaps vermin…_ Lexa smiled to herself. Perhaps she had fled her cell, somehow, and perhaps she had been on the run ever since. Was it Lexa's place to judge her for it? She couldn't imagine a murderer or a madwoman taking in a wounded soldier, much less tolerating her.

Lexa knew she could not treat Clarke as an enigma anymore. Her instinct to question everything she did, or said, was exhausting. It was energy wasted, energy Lexa could use to heal, to help Clarke rather than observe her. She'd told herself the past could wait, but truly it needed to be forgotten completely. Lexa would still have her departure in mind, would still think of her arrival in Polis, but in the meantime she could do nothing else but wait. The war would not end in days or even weeks. There were too many battlefields spread out and too many defense lines on both sides for that to ever happen. For the first time, Lexa felt that she had the luxury of time away from bullets. She couldn't squander it.

Lexa grabbed her boots and the piece of cloth she had brought with her. She polished them, laced them up, and then held herself up against the tree. She braided her wet hair back and finished buttoning her jacket. She brushed her hand over her bandaged wrist and mourned the feeling of her tracker. She knew it could've betrayed her, in the end. Worse, it could have brought her enemies to Clarke's door. Polisian trackers were a complex piece of tech, and not easily tapped into, but with Jordan and Wick being intimately familiar with them, Lexa could not have taken the risk.

It was an odd feeling, to be completely untethered, hidden from her superiors, but Lexa preferred not to think too deeply about it. It didn't make her a free woman. If anything, it made her lost.

She followed Jag's prints in the ground, hoping that Clarke wasn't too upset with her. Briefly, she looked around for some sort of… gift she could get her, but found nothing but pine needles and the odd cluster of ferns with reddish-brown spots. It was a bit fascinating that the diseased plants still persevered.

Lexa arrived in Clarke's backyard and stopped at the door. She went to grab the knob but quickly changed her mind and knocked instead.

It took a moment before Clarke opened with a frown. She didn't expect anyone else but Lexa, of course, but the sight of her in her clean uniform, hair braided back, and polished boots took her by surprise. She watched as Lexa toyed with the sleeves of her jacket, barely able to look her in the eye.

"Is this a goodbye then?" Clarke murmured.

"No," Lexa swallowed. "This is thank you. And an apology."

Clarke blinked several times, as if she'd never heard an apology in her entire life.

"Hopefully my last," Lexa attempted to humor her. When Clarke remained silent, she regained her serious. "I… I should explain myself."

"I don't expect an explanation, Lexa," Clarke said with a sigh. She seemed more drained than upset.

"But you deserve it. You were right; you've saved my life. And in turn I've… _interrogated_ you in your own home." Lexa frowned at herself. "The truth is, for four years I trusted my regiment with my life, and in turn I pledged mine to theirs." She felt herself tremble from both anger and grief. "And then, three Arkadian soldiers who I'd believed fought for us murdered a hundred soldiers in their sleep. Murdered the women and men they ate with, laughed with, and pretended to respect. I killed the one who slipped in my tent. Her name was Zoe Monroe, and just the month before she was saved from an Arkadian shell by the very soldiers she planned to kill. I never doubted her, not once. Not until I saw the blood on her hands."

"Lexa…" Clarke shook her head in astonishment, her heart constricting at the thought of such a betrayal.

"I let my guard down," Lexa looked up into Clarke's eyes and swallowed back the lump in her throat. "Please believe it isn't personal when I say that I cannot trust anyone but myself. I can't… give you that. Not yet."

Clarke seemed to understand it; even seemed relieved. "I know that already; I knew it the second I realized what uniform you were wearing. I don't ask for your trust."

Lexa nodded gratefully.

"All I do ask," Clarke added with the first hint of a smile, "is that you accept I'm a far better healer than you ever will be."

Lexa let out a small chuckle. "I will admit to that."

"Settled, then."

Lexa squared her shoulders. "And I can be a more pleasant guest."

Clarke's grin lit up her face. "Are you sure? You have a lot of work ahead."

Lexa arched a brow. "Have you anyone to compare me to?"

"I have a robot with impeccable manners."

"I meant human."

"Ah. No."

Lexa nodded. "So by default I'm the best you've ever had."

Clarke's cheeks tinged pink. "Don't push it, Major."

"Back to my rank?"

"Yes."

Lexa extended her hand in a gesture she hadn't done in years. "All right then. Thank you for stitching me up and keeping my bones in place, Doc."

Clarke let out a small laugh before taking her hand in hers, their stare not wavering once. "You're welcome, Major."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. Hopefully this chapter was a good snack. Next up: fever dreams… time goes by… steam… what's a Jag. Moodboard [here](https://madeinspace.tumblr.com/post/163628936296/how-machines-live-chapter-6). - xx


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